


Songs of Isca

by riventhorn



Category: Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Slash, bookverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus arrives at Isca Dumnoniorum determined to win back his family's honor. But Isca has not bowed easily to the demands of Rome, and the impudent songs of Esca, the local bard, only add to his troubles. Bookverse AU, can be read as pre-slash or gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs of Isca

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Eagle RBB. Artwork by the_little_owl, which can also be viewed [here](http://the-little-owl.livejournal.com/159478.html). 
> 
> First, a thousand thanks to the_little_owl for being a wonderful collaborator on this project and not only drawing extra artwork for the fic but also being a tremendous help in providing advice on Roman-era Britain and suggestions for improving the fic. 
> 
> A big thank you also to my other betas, radiogaga33 and bigolarthurfan
> 
> And thank you to the RBB mods for running such a great fest!
> 
> Disclaimer: no profit is being made from this; no copyright infringement intended

_Tramp, tramp, tramp_ , said the Cohort’s feet. The dust raised by their marching settled onto the verge of the road, dulling the green grass and the occasional purple flower. 

It was an unusually sunny day, quite hot when one had grown used to fog and mizzle. The Gaulish Auxiliaries grumbled a little to themselves, safe in the knowledge that their Commander could not hear them over the sound of their passage. Ten miles still to go, and all the trouble of getting into their new barracks at the end of it—scuffles over the best spots and having to polish their armor after a hard day’s march because the Commander _would_ insist on turning them all out on the morrow. And there had been the snake, found dead in the middle of the road that morning, its body arranged in an almost perfect circle. An omen indeed, but opinion had split over whether it forecast good or bad fortune.

The foremost ranks kept their eyes on the figure of their Cohort Commander, one Marcus Flavius Aquila, and the red-dyed brush of horsehair in his helmet bright against the sky. If the portent of the morning troubled Marcus’s mind, he did not show it. His horse—a well-trained animal that he had picked from the stables at Isca Silurium—scarcely needed any guidance, keeping easily to a pace that the men could manage. And so Marcus’s thoughts wandered—over the reasons he had chosen this post in Britain, his cherished hopes for the future, and the fine display his Cohort made as it marched along. _His_ Cohort, not yet tested in battle, true, but without a doubt one of the finest Marcus had known in his years with the Eagles. 

So intent was he upon these thoughts, that at first, he did not hear the music. But then it intruded—the sound of harp strings and a resonant voice, carrying clearly over the tramping feet of the Auxiliaries and the rumbling wheels of the pack train. Frowning, Marcus half-turned in his saddle.

Riding over a field towards them was a man, garbed in a checkered cloak and strumming a harp. A Briton, for he sang in the Celtic tongue. Marcus could make little of his words, though he fancied he might have caught a mention of Romans in one of the verses. The men gaped, and Marcus brought his horse to a halt, allowing the rest of the column to stop. Best to find out what this man wanted—by Jupiter, but he doubted that the inhabitants of the _vicus_ at Isca Dumnoniorum had sent a bard ahead to greet them!

Hailing the man, Marcus said, “Your voice is fair, but it would be more courteous to sing in a tongue your listeners understood.”

The bard fell silent and gave Marcus a little bow—an ironic one, or so Marcus felt. He had brown hair and grey eyes that surveyed Marcus appraisingly.

“The Centurion is correct,” the bard said and picked up his tune once more, this time in Latin.

[](http://s1181.beta.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/library/Eagle)

Marcus immediately wished that he had let the matter rest. For the bard’s _words_ —a flush heated his face. The insolence of the man to impugn Rome’s honor— _his_ honor in such a fashion!

The Auxiliaries nearest to them tried to hide their grins. Did the bard not sing what many in their own lands had often thought? Why else would Romans keep pushing into new territory, taking what wasn’t theirs, if not to make up for certain inadequacies?

Marcus saw their ill-concealed amusement. Even his horse seemed to be laughing, he thought, and silently cursed it for being of good British stock— _too_ good. But what could he do? He’d only look even more foolish if he made any attempt to try and silence the bard.

So he waited until, with a final flourish, the bard ended the song. Then Marcus turned an icy glare on his men, who faltered, shuffling their feet and avoiding his eyes. 

“Was my verse not to the Centurion’s liking?” the bard asked, a smirk hovering around his mouth. 

“On the contrary,” Marcus replied flatly. He fished a _dupondius_ from his money-belt and tossed it to the man. The bard caught it, but his jaw clenched.

“We must be on our way,” Marcus said, “to make Dumnoniorum by sundown.” He kicked his horse forward, and the column lurched into motion.

“I go that way myself,” the bard called after him. “Perhaps I shall sing for the Centurion once more.”

Marcus tried to think of a suitable rejoinder, but the bard took off at a gallop, horse fairly skimming over the downs. Nothing remained but for Marcus to scowl at the tail end of his checkered cloak and send a fervent wish to Mithras that their paths would not cross again.

*

“Ah, I’ve heard that one’s tunes in the forum,” Hilarion said, topping off Marcus’s wine cup. “But what can be done? You know as well as I that messing about with a bard would bring the wrath of the entire countryside down upon us. Bad enough to have druids wandering around without adding that to it.”

Centurion Quintus Hilarion had returned Marcus’s salute with a friendly grin when the column had arrived at the fort, despite his solemn answer in reply to Marcus’s: “Fourth Gaulish Auxiliaries of the Second Legion, come to relieve the garrison.” Now, talking with Hilarion in the Commander’s quarters, Marcus felt he could discuss the day’s earlier events without fear of ridicule. 

“Druids?” he asked. “I heard rumors of them at Silurium, but thought it only idle talk.”

“If only,” Hilarion replied, a touch of grimness intruding upon his amiable face. “But they are real enough. And skilled at whipping people into a frenzy, especially after a poor harvest. And we’ve had that—two years running, despite a white cow and two goats sacrificed to the _Matres_.” He shook his head. “So do not be too eager to run off this bard, my Marcus. Listening to songs—however insolent—is better than hearing the chants of holy war.”

Marcus acknowledged the wisdom in Hilarion’s words, yet the memory of the bard’s song still stung for a few days. But soon the thousands of tasks—from important to petty—that consumed the Commander of a fort such as Isca pushed the recollection from his mind. Besides the usual duties of commanding a Cohort, he also held the keys to the paychest and had to serve as the Centurion of the region, overseeing matters of government and taxation for the _vicus_ that clustered near the fort.

Not too near, though. The presence of Rome was still as new as the fresh mortar holding together the walls of the basilica or the timber of the fort’s gate that carried the vinegar scent of oak when it rained.

*

He had only been at Isca a week, but Marcus already knew it to be a rare day when Lutorius appeared in the Commander’s quarters of his own volition. 

“I’d begun to think you lived in those stables of yours,” Marcus said, pushing a bowl of olives towards him. He was fortifying himself before going to tackle the Quartermaster over the records of grain levies. The man seemed to think it a personal insult that Marcus wanted to inspect his accounts.

Lutorius ignored the olives. “It is the stables I wish to speak to you about, sir. With all the rain we’ve been having, they’ve grown frightfully damp. ‘Tis bad for the horses, sir, to have to stand in such an environment.”

“You don’t need my permission to repair a roof, Lutorius.”

“The roof _has_ been repaired, sir. Twice. I’m afraid it’s the drainage system. Or lack thereof.” Lutorius frowned at the table. “Half the beams in the doorway were laid poorly. And the mud, sir—a trench, laid crosswise in the stalls and covered with wood, then kept with chalk—”

“You sound as though you’d like the entire stables rebuilt,” Marcus said, interrupting this recitation. 

A gleam in Lutorius’s eye hinted that he was indeed wishing that exact thing. He reined in his enthusiasm, however. “Of course not, sir; I know that we’ve enough to be getting on with. But a good drain would help enormously.” 

Marcus sighed. “I’ll see if Nelius can spare a moment and have a look.” Was the entire fort going to fall down around his ears? Trouble with the latrines, that weak floor in the second granary, and now the stables! He was determined to do something about the baths as well. A disgraceful amount of sediment in the water—he’d hardly felt any cleaner stepping out than stepping in. And Nelius the only competent engineer to be had. 

Still, he was fond of the place—from the potted rose bush outside his quarters to the northernmost corner of the wall where he could stand and look out on the countryside. It already felt like a home, in a way that no place had since Clusium. 

Lutorius returned to his stables—moderately reassured—and Marcus went to face Gracilis, the Quartermaster.

“They are all here, sir, all the records!” Gracilis exclaimed, cheeks flushed. 

“I do not doubt it,” Marcus said, trying to placate him. “I only wish to review them and gain a better understanding of our supplies.”

Gracilis fussed, but he brought out the records, clearing a space at his cramped table and grudgingly lighting an oil lamp. “You’ll be hearing things, Commander,” he said as Marcus peered at the close writing. “Hearing them soon if you haven’t already. These Durotriges—they like to stir up trouble, if they can. Complain about the taxes.”

Marcus did not raise his head. “And do they have reason to complain?”

“Of course not, sir!” Gracilis rubbed his hands across his belly, kneading the white fabric of his tunic. “We measure the grain fairly—don’t take more than we’re due. But they think we’re harsh, see, think we take too much. And I’m the one they point to, just because I’m there with my tablets and stylus, recording.” He snorted. “Most of them haven’t the wit to understand, sir, haven’t any idea about real learning.”

“No, they only know the heartache of watching their children go hungry in the winter,” Marcus said quietly.

Gracilis wilted. “We only take the allotted amount,” he muttered. “The governor laid it out. We’re only following the law.”

“I know.” Marcus stood up and put his hand on Gracilis’s shoulder. “And I should not judge any man by spiteful rumor.”

*

Centurion Drusillus accompanied Marcus on his first visit to the _vicus_. It was a warm day for early summer, and Marcus did not bother with his cloak. Three Auxiliaries followed behind them, glad of a chance to escape their tasks at the fort and have a look at the town. 

“Three is a good number, sir,” Drusillus had said. “Neither too many—nor too few.”

“You do not expect trouble?” Marcus had asked, and Drusillus had shaken his head.

“Of course not, sir. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

Marcus got the feeling that Isca had been dragged unwillingly into Rome’s sphere of influence. But now that she was there, changes were taking place, albeit slowly. The basilica had to be one of the smallest Marcus had ever seen, perched in the midst of the thatched huts. But the forum was bustling, filled with wine merchants, potters hawking their wares, and even some _amphorae_ filled with pungent fish sauce. 

Not all, however, welcomed the presence of Rome; a fact brought home to Marcus as soon as he entered the forum and heard the familiar strains of a harp.

_I’d been down to Caerleon, to kiss my lady fair,_  
 _And twine a sprig of heather into the darkness of her hair._  
 _And as I walked, and hummed a tune, a soldier I did spy,_  
 _His tunic flapping round his ears like the washing out to dry._

Marcus stiffened, catching a glimpse of brown hair behind a potter’s stall.

_What seems to be the trouble sir? I asked, and he replied:_  
 _I’m late to home, good Briton, and I need a horse to ride._  
 _For I must make ten miles and more before the sun has set,_  
 _Or with frying pan between the ears is how I will be met._

_You’ve got yourself a red-haired lass, I said, and hid a grin,_  
 _But I shall help you find a steed before the light grows dim._  
 _I led him to a stable and pointed to a stall:_  
 _“A finer mount could not be found in Urbicus’s hall.”_

_The soldier he looked doubtful and turned to ask of me,_  
 _If this be beast or fowl or a creature of the sea._  
 _A British horse, I answered, yea, you have not seen its like,_  
 _Strong and fleet and handsome, and fiercer than a pike._

_As long as it is fast, he said, I care not for its name._  
 _Now help me put a saddle on this horse if it be tame._  
 _We saddled up the steed indeed, and the soldier he jumped on,_  
 _And off they went a-bouncing down the hill of yonder farm._

_And I remained a-laughing, like a boy who’d stole a fig,_  
 _For ‘twas not a horse the soldier rode, but a fat and bristly pig!_

[](http://s1181.beta.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/library/Eagle)

Laughter followed the end of the song, and now Marcus could see the bard, that same damnable smirk on his face.

“Ignore it,” Drusillus said quietly, gripping Marcus’s arm.

Gray eyes met Marcus’s—challenging and unrepentant. Marcus stared back a moment, and then he took a deep breath and looked away. 

“I shall want to inspect the mill down by the river,” he said. “Gracilis told me it has only just been built and that there have been some troubles with it. Not that Nelius can spare any more of his time.”

“Yes, sir,” Drusillus said, sounding relieved. Did he think Marcus so intemperate that he would attack that bard in the middle of the forum?

Not that Marcus didn’t wish he _could_. He tried to make himself remember what Hilarion had said about druids and war chants, but he couldn’t help but smart from the insults and worry over what the men must think. If only he had the weight of a few campaigns or even a skirmish or two behind his authority! 

*

He wished even more fervently for that experience the next day when Drusillus told him that he had it on good authority that Centurion Galba had been accepting bribes from the men to let them off fatigues. A common enough practice in the Legions, unfortunately, and Marcus rather wondered at Drusillus making a point of it. But perhaps he wanted to see whether or not Marcus would—and could—assert his authority. 

There was nothing for it—he made sure all of his armor was buckled on correctly and then sent for Galba.

Centurion Galba was an older man with touches of grey in his hair. He was tall, and he stared down at Marcus with a hint of derision in his eyes, even as he gave the proper salute.

“Centurion,” Marcus said, trying his best to keep his voice even and firm, “it has come to my attention that you have been accepting bribes from the men in exchange for lessening their duties.” 

Galba’s eyes flickered. “I…did not think that you would mind it.”

“And what gave you that idea?” Marcus demanded angrily, noting that Galba did not bother to address him by his rank.

Galba shrugged. “The matter of your history suggested that you would not be overly concerned with following Legionary protocol.”

It took all of Marcus’s self-control not to take a step backwards. 

“You are mistaken,” he said to Galba, meeting his eyes. “I expect all the officers under my command to uphold the highest standards of the Legions, just as I do myself. I trust I will not have to speak to you about it again.”

Galba stared at him a moment longer and then gave him a slow salute. “You will not…sir.”

Marcus dismissed him and only when the door had shut did he sit down, taking a deep breath. Why did the insinuations and aspersions cast upon his father still affect him so? Had he not been hearing them for most of his life? Had he not spent his years with the Eagles struggling against them, proving to every one of his commanders that his name need not mark him as a failure? 

Well, by the time he left Britain, the black marks against his family would be washed clean. And men like Galba would look at him with respect. He had spent years working towards this, and he wasn’t about to let Centurion Galba and his ilk bring shame to his Cohort.

*

The very next day, Marcus went out into the practice yard. If he was going to win the respect of all his men, he needed to show them that he was not only unwilling to bend the rules but could also handle himself in a fight.

Shifting his grip on his wooden practice sword, he eyed Centurion Paulus across the yard. Paulus had a heavy build—thick arms and broad shoulders—and must have weighed at least fifteen _librae_ more than Marcus. 

Well aware of the many sets of eyes trained upon him, Marcus advanced towards Paulus. Three _contubernia_ were supposed to be in the practice yard, but quite a few more men had found reason to loiter in adjacent doorways and windows. Getting the chance to see how one’s Commander managed a sword always occasioned an avid curiosity. 

Paulus stabbed towards him, and Marcus blocked the stroke with his shield, feeling the shock of it tremble through his arms. No need to worry that Paulus would go easy on him, then. 

He chanced a quick strike and managed a glancing blow on Paulus’s thigh, the padded blade leaving a red mark on his skin. There was a subdued cheer from some of the men.

Paulus grunted and surged closer, blows coming faster now. Marcus felt himself slide into that space between active thought and instinct. He kept his eyes trained on Paulus’s face and shoulders, watching the twitch of muscle and intent. 

The tip of Paulus’s sword skimmed his forearm. And then Marcus took a swift step to the left, knocked Paulus’s shield-arm aside with his shoulder, and pressed his sword against Paulus’s stomach.

“Yield,” Paulus gasped, breathing hard, his face red.

Marcus stepped back, inclining his head. “Well fought, Centurion.”

“Likewise, sir,” Paulus said, although he sounded angry.

“Carry on with the training,” Marcus said, and the men around them straightened to attention, trying to pretend they had not just been exchanging bets over who would come out on top. 

“Yes, sir.” Paulus turned towards the nearest cluster of Auxiliaries. “Move!” he barked, exchanging the sword for his _vitis_. 

Going to a water barrel, Marcus splashed off some of the sweat, dousing his hair. Drusillus appeared at his side.

“Yes?” Marcus asked. 

“A delegation from the _vicus_ is at the gate, sir. They wish to speak to you.”

“What about?” Marcus asked, unpinning the wide neck of his tunic so that he could mop at his face, and then securing it with his _fibula_ once more.

“Something about the grain levies, I gather,” Drusillus replied. “They always come to complain, every time there’s a bad harvest.”

“It’s barely past spring,” Marcus pointed out. “I can’t see how they’d know. Anything could happen.”

“Aye, sir.” Drusillus sounded gloomy. “Though more of this thrice-cursed rain is the most likely.”

“Now, don’t turn into Lutorius on me,” Marcus teased, and Drusillus’s sun-browned face broke into a grin.

“But he’s been in a fair good mood these past days, thanks to getting those trenches installed in his stables,” Drusillus reminded Marcus as they walked towards his quarters. “A fiddly job it was, and Nurius about to whack Lutorius round the head with a _dolabra_ if he didn’t stop hovering.”

Marcus chuckled. “True, I suppose we need one pessimist at least among us or the gods will think we’ve grown arrogant.”

An Auxiliary conducted the delegation from the _vicus_ to Marcus’s quarters. The three men, introduced as Bericus, Fergal, and Hunno, took their seats at the table when Marcus gestured politely. All three men were farmers and, judging by the ugly scar that puckered Hunno’s forehead, no strangers to war. 

Bericus could speak a halting Latin, and Marcus stumbled along in Celtic for a few minutes before turning to Drusillus for help.

“They say that they fear the taxes will overburden them this year,” Drusillus said

“Tell them that I understand their concerns, but that I have little say over the tax rates,” Marcus replied. “And the harvest may yet be good. Perhaps there is no cause for worry.”

Judging by the deepening frowns on their faces after Drusillus spoke, none of them were prepared to be swayed by hopeful words. Hunno gestured forcefully.

“They lost many children and elders to hunger, two winters hence, he says,” Drusillus translated. 

“I regret that,” Marcus said. “But I cannot change the law.”

Fergal began speaking, hesitated a moment, and then finished, despite the warning look that Bericus gave him. Marcus looked inquiringly at Drusillus.

“He said that although the laws may be just, the ways they are administered may not be,” Drusillus replied, frowning.

It took Marcus a moment to catch on. “Is he accusing us of cheating them? Of taking more than the allotted amount?”

“It is a—a bad lie,” Bericus said swiftly, understanding Marcus’s outrage if not his words.

“No,” Fergal said. “Truth. Not lie.”

“What proof do they have of this?” Marcus demanded. He turned to Fergal. “What proof?”

Fergal made an angry motion with his hands and sat back, folding his arms across his chest.

“So you have no proof.” Marcus stood up. “If you cannot show gratitude for the services and protection Rome provides you—if instead you sully our names with these groundless accusations, then this interview is at an end.”

Bericus made a few conciliatory remarks, but Hunno’s and Fergal’s faces grew stony and sullen. 

“Could there be any truth to what they say?” Marcus asked Drusillus when the three men had been shown out. 

“I doubt it, sir. Gracilis is very thorough with his record keeping, and we use a stone measure for the grain—quite accurate. They resent the tax itself and would do so no matter the handling.”

“I trust that to be the case.” Marcus rolled his shoulders. He was feeling a little stiff from the sparring practice and couldn’t bear the thought of sitting here all afternoon with reports and correspondence. “Send word down to Cradoc that I should like to go for a hunt, if he can spare the time.”

Drusillus sent the message, and word returned that Cradoc would be pleased to show the Commander along the deer trails. He had been hunting twice with Cradoc already and thought the man trustworthy, if a bit reserved.

When he arrived at Cradoc’s cluster of huts, though, he found another man standing with him. Marcus had no trouble recognizing the face of the bard, for it often troubled his recollections.

“I trust the Commander will not mind if Esca here joins us,” Cradoc said. “Three pairs of eyes sight better than two.”

So his name was Esca. Marcus took a breath—he should not be petty. “I do not mind it.”

Esca’s grey eyes flashed as though he were laughing inside, though his face remained impassive. He took the spear that Cradoc handed him and gave Marcus one of his ironic little bows. 

“I hope you will not have the urge to burst into song on the hunting trail,” Marcus said to him as they walked. 

“Perhaps I will sing a song to lure the deer to us,” Esca replied, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. “That would please the Commander, yes?”

“No,” Marcus rejoined quietly. “I would take no pleasure in such a killing.”

“No?” Esca’s voice was soft but cold. “What else do your Eagles do but kill the innocent and defenseless?”

Marcus recoiled. “I have never once tainted my honor—or Rome’s—in such a way.”

Esca stared at him and did not reply.

They followed a track into the green hill country, their shadows lengthening as the sun arced towards the horizon. Marcus was of half a mind to call off the hunt. But no, he would not let Esca drive him away. And he would not be put off by the man’s insults.

“You hold a spear well, for a bard,” he observed.

Esca’s hand tightened around the spear haft. “I was not always such as I am now.”

“A warrior?” Marcus hazarded.

“Of the Brigantes,” Esca confirmed, but would say no more, and Cradoc maintained his own silent counsel.

They brought down a small roe deer in a thicket, spotting it by chance in the thickening gloom. Marcus left Cradoc and Esca to the dressing, wandering over to a break in the trees and looking out over a meadow. He watched a wren hop about a bush and listened to the sough of the wind. Tomorrow should be a fair day, he thought. Perhaps he would turn out the cavalry for some sport. The delegation from the _vicus_ had given him pause, particularly that they should be so bold with their accusations. A reminder of the power he commanded might not go amiss. And at the very least Lutorius would be pleased.

When they returned to Cradoc’s huts, Marcus laid his hand on Esca’s arm for a moment. “I know well how the past can follow a man, dogging his footsteps and stealing his rest at night. But I wish that you would not bear me ill will for things in which I took no part.”

“No part?” Esca stepped away from him. “Looking as you do and holding five hundred swords in your hand? Perhaps you did not ride with the Legionaries that quelled the spirits of my people, but you are not blameless.”

Marcus gave him a short nod. “So be it, then.” He was sorry, for he sensed Esca would be a loyal companion, were their circumstances changed.

*

A large, fairly even field to the south of the fort, sloping slightly down towards the riverbank, served for the cavalry games. Many people from the _vicus_ arrived to watch, and a few enterprising merchants brought pushcarts of various delicacies to tempt the crowd. Marcus, seated in a wooden chair brought out for the occasion, gave the signal for the gates to open. 

A collective gasp went through the crowd as the cavalry appeared, dressed in their ceremonial armor for the games. Each horse and rider dazzled the eye as the sun caught upon them. Bronze chamfrons with a silvered ground surrounded the horses’ eyes and forehead, many bearing the likeness of Mars, and the design was echoed in the horses’ breastplates. The men wore decorated greaves on their legs in addition to their scale corselets. And covering each man’s face was a silvered mask, expressionless and foreboding. As was usual for the mock battle, half represented the Greeks and half the Amazons, the latter possessing masks of a more feminine nature. 

Several men at the head of the column carried a _draco_. The bronze dragon heads bared their fangs, their colorful tails streaming out behind them. The wind passing through their mouths caused an eerie hissing noise, whining over the noise of hooves and jangling metal. 

It had been a while since Marcus had seen such a display, and he found himself enjoying it as much as the crowd, though the townspeople’s eagerness was tempered with awe. Yes, a good thing to hold these games and remind everyone of the power enclosed behind the timbered gates of Isca. 

And the men all appreciated the break in routine, even if the cavalry _had_ spent half the night polishing their armor.

Much wheeling and turning, prancing and pawing accompanied the mock charges. He would have to commend Lutorius for his handling of the Dacians, for they executed a number of breathtaking maneuvers, the horses galloping so closely together that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. 

“I think the Greeks shall carry the day,” Drusillus said from where he stood next to Marcus, shading his eyes against the sun.

“So certain are you?” Marcus grinned. “Half a _denarii_ that it shall be the Amazons.” 

He thought he might have seen Esca in the crowd, but then it shifted before he could be sure. 

“I had meant to ask you,” he said to Drusillus, “if you know anything of the Brigantes. Only, there are so many tribes scattered about, and I am still learning the differences between them.”

“Most of them live to the north of here, I believe,” Drusillus replied. “Friendly to Rome, for the most part, though rebellion can flare up even still. Three years ago, in fact, we had word of an uprising. Put down immediately, of course.”

“Of course.” Marcus watched a trooper fling his spear. For a moment, he wondered how it must be, to watch these games when you had been on the other end of that spear, seeing a _turma_ charge down upon your village. But he pushed the thought away. Esca’s bitterness might be understandable, but rebellion could not be countenanced.

The Amazons did indeed win the field, and Drusillus grudgingly gave Marcus his winnings. It was in the bustle and confusion of everyone getting back into the fort that Marcus happened to see Gracilis pull aside Centurion Galba. They spoke briefly together, but he thought that Gracilis appeared distressed and even angry. He wondered at it, but soon forgot the incident in the preparations for a celebratory dinner among the officers to toast the success of the games.

*

The last lingering traces of spring vanished into the high summer sun. The weather stayed warm but rainy. It seemed to Marcus that the mud never disappeared. Puddles stood in the fields, drowning the young plants even as they struggled to grow. 

One evening when the rain had let up to a drizzling mist, Marcus was walking back to the fort from the basilica—alone, for it had only been a small matter of business—when he heard music drifting from a cluster of huts. A doorway was open, despite the rain, and firelight crept out into the twilight, bringing with it the sound of voices and a harp. Marcus halted, drawn to this picture of friendly jest and warm companionship. 

And then abruptly, the harping turned wistful, and the chatter subsided. The music seemed to stick in Marcus’s throat, and he swallowed down memories of his mother’s face and the warm, vine-covered slopes of Clusium. The harp strummed alone for a span of time, and then Esca’s voice joined it. Marcus was not yet fluent in the Celtic tongue, but he was growing more accustomed to it, and he could guess well enough at what Esca sang. 

_How shall I call thee,_  
 _sons of my father,_  
 _when I walk the hills where we once hunted,_  
 _chasing swift deer with feather-bound spears?_

_How shall I call thee,_  
 _wife of my father,_  
 _who gave me breath and blood,_  
 _as I stand by the field where wheat ripened in the sun?_

_How shall I call thee,_  
 _lord and father,_  
 _when I kneel amid the stones_  
 _that marked your hearth-place, torn open now to wind and weather?_

_How could you hear me call,_  
 _one alone,_  
 _where once we raised our voices in glad shouts,_  
 _and reckoned not the passing days, now gone,_  
 _footsteps silent and voices still?_

The song ended, and the music ceased. Marcus could hear the rain pattering against the thatch. He stood a moment longer and then went on, climbing the hill to the fort, the lights and fragrant wood smoke of the town fading into the night behind him.

*

“But the Commander has already examined the records!” Gracilis protested, dogging Marcus’s footsteps as he paced around the Quartermaster’s office. 

“For the last harvest, yes. I should like to review those for the past five,” Marcus replied. 

“It is those fools from the village, isn’t it?” Gracilis mopped at the sweat dampening his thinning hair. “I heard that they came here, spreading their lies, slandering the good name of our Cohort.”

“Whatever else they may be, they were not fools,” Marcus said evenly. “And they deserve to have their concerns treated fairly. Send all the relevant records to my quarters, please.”

But as Marcus worked his way through the records later that day, he had to admit that if graft was occurring, he was damned if he could find evidence of it. Scowling, he glared down at the wax tablet on which he had been working figures. Numbers had never been a strong suit of his—all these _sextarii_ and _modii_ made his head ache. 

And if Gracilis was participating in the fraud, well, he could be writing the records however he pleased. He had certainly been nervous and upset every time Marcus interfered in his business. Of course, that might just be the natural anxiety that came from an interaction with one’s Commander. And he couldn’t accuse the man of anything without proof.

Proof which decidedly was _not_ going to come from these interminable lists of columns and numbers. Neptune take the wretched things to the depths!

Perhaps the matter would have rested there, had not Mithras guided his footsteps one evening. He had made the rounds with the Duty Centurion and was returning to his quarters. Usually he walked along the _Via Praetoria_ but that night decided to take a more circuitous route through the barracks. Rounding a corner, he caught a glimpse of two figures ahead of him, looming out of the darkness. He could guess at their identity—Centurion Galba’s tall, lanky form accompanied by the squatter shape of Gracilis. 

They moved off, and Marcus followed carefully, keeping to the shadows. A wooden bucket in his path almost gave him away, but he saw it at the last moment and stepped to the side. Finally they halted near Gracilis’s quarters. Holding his breath, Marcus edged closer until he could just make out their words. 

“Trouble will only come if you panic.” That was Centurion Galba’s deep voice, sunk to a whisper.

“I do not think we should proceed,” Gracilis answered him, voice ragged with nerves. 

“It is simple enough—and no one will suspect unless you lose your courage,” Galba insisted, perhaps fisting his hand in Gracilis’s tunic, judging by the scuffling noises. 

“You need me,” Gracilis gasped. “You can’t do anything without me.”

“Aye, and you’re well rewarded for your efforts, aren’t you?”

There was silence for a moment, and Marcus could practically hear Gracilis counting the coins in his head. “Perhaps ten percent more,” the Quartermaster said at last. “As compensation for the risk that I take.”

“We all take a risk,” Galba returned roughly. “And you take more than enough as it is.”

“Are the others ready?” Gracilis asked, voice sour. 

“Yes. I’ve found several likely men in this Cohort. I know they won’t squeal.”

Marcus listened to the exchange with mounting fury. He took a step forward, ready to burst upon them, and then forced himself to halt. 

If he accused them like this, based on an overheard conversation in which nothing had been plainly spoken, it could lead only to trouble. Oh, his word would not be questioned—not openly. But the men would whisper and speculate and begin to doubt him. His father’s name would be brought up. The shameful demise of the Ninth would once again become a favored tale in the barracks. 

Gracilis and Galba moved off, their footsteps fading into the night. Marcus remained a moment, hidden in the shadows of the barracks, smoothing his face into an unworried mien. If he could only find hard proof—then he would have these criminals out of his Cohort by the next sun!

*

The next morning, he set out for the basilica, taking only Drusillus and Paulus with him. Paulus had thawed a bit towards him once Marcus had taken him to task for overdoing it with his _vitis_. Hard words and a firm eye had apparently made up for the experience that Marcus lacked.

As they walked, he quietly filled them in on his suspicions.

“I could hardly give credit to it, sir,” Drusillus said, “if you had not heard them yourself. Though they may have been arguing over some other matter, unrelated to the grain levies. There are many ways for men to make an extra coin or two on the side. Perhaps Galba has not given up taking bribes from the men for lighter duties, despite your words to him.”

“No, why would Gracilis be involved if that was the case?” Marcus pointed out.

“I could believe it of them, sir,” Paulus put in. “Both of them. Why, now that you speak of it, I remember a group of lads always following Galba around, last autumn. Wouldn’t be no hardship to sneak a wagon or two of grain out of the Decumanian Gate under cover of darkness with a willing sentry on guard.”

“But if that is the case, I can’t believe someone hasn’t noticed!” Marcus shook his head. “I’ve double-checked the records and examined the grain stores myself. Every last _modii_ is accounted for. There doesn’t appear to be any missing.”

“If there’s no evidence at the fort, I doubt we’ll find any at the basilica,” Drusillus said. “We’ll have to wait until the harvest and try to catch them out then.”

“I don’t allow criminals in my Cohort. I’m not letting them sleep under our standard one more night if I can help it.”

The basilica, though, yielded little. Gracilis kept most of the records at the fort. They turned up only a few fragmentary records, a supply of fresh tablets and papyrus, and the stone grain measure, which bore the mark: IV modii. 

Marcus leaned his hand on it. He could picture the line of villagers on the day taxes were collected, arriving with their sacks of grain, pouring them into the measure under the watchful eye of Gracilis…

“Paulus, Drusillus,” he said slowly. “Go fetch me a sack of grain—four _modii_ worth. I want to test something.”

The Centurions looked puzzled but did as he bid. Marcus waited impatiently. If he was right—well, it was a clever trick. Little wonder Gracilis had not been caught out. 

Paulus and Drusillus returned at last with a sack of wheat. Drawing his knife, Marcus slit the top and hefted it, letting the kernels stream out into the measure. He shook it, making sure to get all of them out, and then tossed the empty bag aside. 

[](http://s1181.beta.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/library/Eagle)

The measure was not yet full—a good five _unciae_ remained. 

“But it claims that it holds four _modii_ ,” Drusillus said, swiping his thumb over the graven letters.

“And yet in truth it holds much more.” Marcus dipped his fingers into the wheat kernels, letting them stream over his hand. “A farmer comes to pay his taxes, grain already measured into his sacks. Gracilis orders him to pour one of the bags in here to make sure that he has measured correctly. And to the farmer’s shock, it turns out that he has not. Every one of his sacks needs more grain in it.”

“But the farmer is in the right—it is the measure itself which proves false,” Paulus concluded.

Marcus nodded. “Exactly. I imagine Gracilis orders the farmer to bring more sacks of grain to make up for what is missing. And it is an easy matter to set those extra sacks aside. For no one will miss them. He can record the farmer’s original payment as the full amount—which it in fact was.” 

“Aye, and look at the mark of the stonemason, here on the side,” Drusillus said, pointing. “I remember him—he died in a plague a few years ago, but he and Gracilis were ever in each other’s counsel.” 

“Gracilis may wish the plague had carried him off as well, by the time I am finished with him,” Marcus ended grimly.

*

Being dragged to the Commander’s quarters under armed guard did much to loosen Gracilis’s tongue. And when confronted with the evidence, he caved swiftly, giving up the names of Galba and the other conspirators.

“You are a disgrace to this Cohort and to Rome,” Marcus told him, cold and forbidding. Gracilis, Galba, and the rest would receive _misso ignominosae_ for their shameful conduct. He told Gracilis plainly that he expected him to leave Isca, the _vicus_ , preferably Britain itself, and ignored the man’s blubbering and pleading. 

Galba took the news more stoically, not trying to deny his involvement, but the fury was plain on his face. “So, you try to regain your honor by ruining other men,” he spat, “hoping that your name will come to the attention of the Legate.”

Marcus had to turn his back and wait for the guards to escort Galba back to his cell or he would have struck the man.

The whole business made Marcus feel wretched. And a painful duty yet remained—he must go to Bericus, Hunno, and Fergal and tell them the truth of the matter, admitting that they had been in the right of it all along. 

“The measure will be replaced at once, of course,” he told them. “And I shall personally oversee the next grain levy to make sure nothing untoward occurs.”

He returned to the fort in quite low spirits. It was foolish, but he had always held the Legions in such high esteem. His entire childhood they had seemed a shining dream, a dream into which his father would disappear and return crowned with glory, quite dazzling to a young boy’s eyes. Oh, he had found out the truth of it as soon as he actually joined the Legions. Legionaries were men, with all the faults and shortcomings that implied. But still—every time an example of that flawed humanity stared Marcus in the face, it ripped at the tattered shreds of that old dream that somehow still lived on in his heart. 

It had been his father’s dream, he knew. And his father would never have done anything to sully the honor of his Legion. Whatever had happened beyond the northern frontiers, it was impossible that his father would have abandoned the Eagle and run like a coward.

Wasn’t it?

*

Of all the days of the week, the Dies Mercurii was Marcus’s least favorite. For it was the day when the magistrate presided over any judicial matters within the _vicus_ , and as Isca was such a small post, he must himself serve as the magistrate. A tedious business and an aggravating one. For half the complaints seemed to involve men of his own Cohort. Drusillus sat at his side, his lowering brows promising extra duties to every unfortunate soldier who shuffled into the basilica. 

But at last all the cases had been heard and judged. Marcus fairly burst into the open air and decided to stroll around the forum for a while before heading back to the fort. It was in front of a weaver’s stall that he bumped into Esca.

“Forgive my clumsiness,” he said curtly, intending to move on, but Esca put his hand on his arm. His face looked unusually solemn, the usual mocking twinkle in his eyes absent.

“I heard what you did,” Esca said quietly. “There are not many who would have pursued the matter and been willing to listen to such accusations so fairly.”

“I did as any honorable man would,” Marcus returned. “I suppose you will be turning the whole sorry affair into a verse and singing it in the forum for the amusement of the crowds,” he added, a trifle bitterly.

But Esca squeezed his arm and looked intently into Marcus’s eyes. “No. I should never cheapen your actions in such a way.”

Marcus regarded him warily. “So, you may yet sing the praises of the Romans, then?” he ventured at last, testing the waters.

The corner of Esca’s mouth turned into a smile. “I will never sing the praises of the Romans. But perhaps I shall let the Commander’s wounded pride recover.”

Marcus laughed. “I admit that my pride _was_ wounded a bit. Your words fall as surely as stones loosed from a sling.”

“I will let the Legions escape their sting for a while, then,” Esca said, and grasped his arm again before moving away.

The next time Marcus went hunting with Cradoc, Esca joined them. But the tension that had been between them was gone. In its place, Marcus found Esca’s quiet laugh and smile, and perhaps the beginnings of a friendship that he would never have accounted possible.

*

The new Quartermaster arrived from Venta on yet another rainy day in mid-summer. His name was Numerius Rufius Melitus, and he quickly got on everyone’s nerves. Their luck went from one extreme to the other, Marcus thought gloomily one day as he listened to Melitus rattle on about the shocking waste of oil occurring at the fort—with frequent pointed glances at Marcus’s oil lamps. Gracilis had openly flouted the principles of his post while Melitus adhered to them rigidly. 

“And then he presented me with an entire scroll’s worth of recommendations for enhanced efficiency,” Marcus groused to Esca later that day. “Including stopping the extra ration of wine on the gods’ days, can you imagine?”

He was examining some horses for potential purchase and had asked Esca to join him. He knew that Esca had a good eye for the stock in these parts. Lutorius had assumed a more saturnine expression that usual when Esca arrived, and Marcus had hastily assured him that he didn’t doubt Lutorius’s knowledge, only that it might be good to have a local on their side. Horse traders delighted in squeezing every drop of money from the Legions whenever possible. 

“It sounds like the perfect material for a song,” Esca said, scanning a brown gelding with a critical eye. 

“Please, no,” Marcus groaned. “If Melitus ever got wind of it, he’d probably go back to Venta in a huff, and the next Quartermaster they sent would be even worse.”

“Perhaps I shall spare the Commander that agony,” Esca replied magnanimously.

“You must call me Marcus, Esca. Truly.” He’d insisted on this before, but Esca had not complied. A touch of reserve still remained in his manner, and whenever his eyes happened to light upon the fort where it perched on the Red Mount, his gaze darkened. 

“The brown would do, but not the black,” Esca said, bringing Marcus’s attention back to the matter at hand. Lutorius confirmed his opinion grudgingly. 

Esca refused to join in the bartering, but Marcus felt the trader refrained from quoting a truly outrageous price in case Esca gave the game away with an incredulous eyebrow. 

*

Marcus had determined to build a small temple to Mithras on the slopes near the fort. It would be good to have a place to carry out the proper rites and ceremonies. He knew that Drusillus belonged to the Lion Degree, and Paulus had evinced interest in being initiated himself. So Marcus had taken every opportunity he could to survey round the fort for an appropriate place for a _mithraeum_. His feet seemed drawn to a small hollow with grassy sides and a few stunted holly trees—too small to be worth the trouble of harvesting—growing in one corner. He was there one evening, watching as the glossy leaves faded darker as the sun went down, when Esca appeared.

“You walk alone?” Esca asked, sitting down next to him on the slope.

Marcus shrugged. “It is in easy hailing distance from the wall, and the view all round is quite clear. I am searching for a place to build a temple to one of my gods, and this place feels…right.”

Esca made a noncommittal noise and carefully drew his harp out from under its cover. He began strumming a song—a wordless song that sounded somehow dissonant and awkward to Marcus’s ears. And yet the more he listened, the more he began to see how it fit the earth under their feet, and the mist forming along the riverbanks, and the quiet evening soft about them. 

“That is a song of my own people,” Esca said when the music ended. “I do not often play it here in the South.” 

“It sounded strange to my ears. I was not certain I liked it,” Marcus confessed.

“You build coursed stone walls and straight roads. You train men to march and fight in formation. Of course you did not like it,” Esca replied.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that you are Roman, and not all of us have adopted your ways.”

“I do not see why that means I cannot like a piece of your music,” Marcus retorted.

“But you did not.”

“No, but I should like to.”

Esca fell silent, seemingly surprised. At last he said, “But if I should play it for you until it sounded sweet to your ears, I should be bound to try some of your own music. And then perhaps I would not be able to play the first ever again.”

He stood, gathering his cloak about him. “The Commander should not linger on the hills after dark,” he added and walked off—not towards the _vicus_ but out into the trackless meadows, leaving Marcus to ponder his words.

*

“It will be a poor harvest,” Drusillus said, crumbling the last bits of his supper bread between his fingers. “And we shall all rue it before long.”

Marcus watched as the faces of the officers around the table grew grim in the dim light from the lamps. 

“So, you have news, then?” he asked Drusillus. “From your woman in the _vicus_?”

“Nothing definite. Only rumors.” He scowled. “Rumors of a druid prowling the neighborhood, perhaps sheltered at one of the outlying farms.” 

Marcus fiddled with his spoon. “I need more than that to order a search of a farm. Ransacking barns and houses will turn people against us quicker than the words of a druid. She knows nothing else?”

“She has no brothers, no father, no uncle—no one to speak with about the business of warriors. And it is no secret that I visit her,” Drusillus added.

“What about that bard—called Esca, is he not?” Lutorius asked. “Perhaps he has heard something.”

“Aye, he’s been given house-room by many,” Paulus agreed. “He’d have listened. Watched.”

“I shall ask him,” Marcus decided and went to the forum the next day in hopes of catching Esca out for a midday stroll.

He finally located him sitting outside a hut, threading a new lace through his boot. He hailed him, and Esca looked up. He did not smile, but he gestured for Marcus to join him. 

“A fine day,” Marcus said. “I expected you to be out in the forum plying your trade.”

“Some days are meant for music and some are not,” Esca replied in his usual inscrutable manner. But then he added, “My mother only sang on rainy mornings.”

“Did she teach you, then?” Marcus asked, carefully, for he guessed that the subject held painful memories for Esca.

“Yes. She called me her lark until I grew old enough to resent it. And my uncle showed me the way of harping—when I could be pulled away from my spears.”

Marcus had never asked about what had happened to Esca’s family and was not sure that he could, even now. He was suddenly painfully conscious of his armor and military bearing.

“Those are the times that are good to remember,” Esca continued softly. “All the time before.” He did not say before what, but Marcus could guess well enough. And then Esca straightened and looked at him. “What brings the Commander here on, as you say, such a fine day?”

“I only wished to ask you something,” Marcus began awkwardly. “But perhaps now is not the time—”

“Speak freely,” Esca said. “Though know that anything you say is fair game for a song. If you want to ask about the pretty girl with the blue eyes who lingers by the potter’s stall, I cannot promise I will not sing to her about it tomorrow.”

Marcus forced a laugh. “No—no, that is not it. I wished to ask if you had heard any of these rumors—about a druid.”

Esca stilled. “So you want me to play the spy,” he said at last, and his voice had grown cold and hard.

“No! Of course not. I just thought that if you had chanced to hear something…” Marcus trailed off.

“These are not my people,” Esca said, jaw tight, gray eyes furious. “But they are closer kin to me than a Roman and his dogs of soldiers.”

“Esca, please, do not be angry,” Marcus pleaded, trying not to flinch at the derision in Esca’s words. “I do not ask for specifics, only confirmation. If I at least knew for sure—”

“I think the Commander would be wise to return to his fort now,” Esca said, turning from him and gathering up his things. 

“Esca!” Marcus called after him as he walked away, but Esca did not look back. 

Marcus watched him go, feeling by turns guilty and angry. He had thought they were becoming friends. But Esca did not seem to care if Marcus met his death under swords incited by a druid’s chants. 

He felt out-of-sorts the rest of the day, snapping at Melitus and even Drusillus. Retiring early, he gave orders not to be disturbed. He said a prayer to Mithras and then settled before the brazier. Although he did not usually polish his own armor now that he was a Cohort Commander, he needed something to do with his hands. So he buffed his helmet, rubbing the bronze band that decorated the brow until it shone. 

He should not fault Esca for refusing to speak. What if he had been in Esca’s position? Would it feel like a betrayal to give information to someone like himself? Or perhaps Esca really did hope he would die. Marcus knew that he had no love for Romans and would probably be glad to see the entire garrison obliterated, vanishing from the countryside and leaving the British soil to its native sons.

Vanishing like his father had. 

Marcus clutched his helmet, letting the metal dig painfully into his skin. Whatever Esca’s feelings on the matter, the fact that he had refused to speak at all suggested that there was a druid in the vicinity. But trying to catch him would be like chasing a darting minnow in the shallows. There was nothing he could do except be alert. He could not go around accusing people of insurrection without solid proof. It was like the business with Gracilis all over again—knowing that wrongs were being committed but unable to act.

*

He did not see Esca for over a week, but on the Dies Mercurii when he was returning from the basilica, he came across Esca singing and harping some innocuous song about two ill-fated lovers. Motioning for Drusillus to continue on to the fort without him, he drew nearer, waiting until Esca finished and the listening crowd dispersed.

When they were alone, Esca glanced at him and then looked back at his harp, adjusting one of the strings. 

“I should not have spoken to you as I did the other day,” Marcus said. “It was not fair of me to ask such a thing of you.”

“No, it was not.” Esca gave him a hard look. “I trust you will not broach the subject again.”

So Esca did not want to break off all acquaintance with him, then. Feeling lighter, Marcus smiled. “I will not.”

“Good, for I’ve a mind to watch you make a fool of yourself with Cradoc’s chariot.”

Marcus laughed. “So he told you about our wager then, did he?”

“I’m afraid I may have to break my promise not to make any more songs about foolish Romans.”

“Ah, so you are certain that I shall fail? Then prepare to be disappointed, friend. I had the skill to become a charioteer in Rome had my path not lain with the Eagles.”

He thought Esca might have flinched a little at the word “friend,” but his voice was smooth when he spoke. “Your Roman horses are no match for ours. You will have your hands full, managing Cradoc’s four, royal-blooded and fire-hearted.”

Cradoc did not return from Durinum as quickly as expected, however, and Marcus had to endure Esca’s teasing because of it. He took to playing a song about a man who drove his chariot into a lake whenever Marcus was about. But unlike his earlier tunings, there was no malice in this one, and no one else besides him and Marcus guessed to what it referred. 

Rumors of the druid continued to circulate, and along with them came grimmer, more certain news that most of the crops had failed. Marcus could feel a fidgety tension seeping into the fort and decided to turn the entire garrison out on an unusually sunny day for a _campus_. They marched two miles from the fort to a field, and he had the centurions set some of the men to digging earthworks while the rest drilled in preparation for a mock attack. 

The sun was beating down, and everyone was growing hot and sweaty, the men on the earthworks cursing their luck and tasting the sting of Paulus’s _vitis_ , when Marcus happened to glance over his shoulder. Esca was sitting on his horse by a stand of trees, watching them.

Even as Marcus saw him, though, he turned his horse and disappeared back into the forest. 

“Sir?” Drusillus asked, noticing Marcus’s inattention.

“It’s nothing.” Marcus turned back, uncomfortable in the knowledge that had it been anyone else but Esca, he might have sent after them and asked to know what they were doing observing the garrison’s activities so closely. 

*

Cradoc returned at last and sent word to Marcus, reminding him of their wager. They agreed to meet in a level spot by a curve in the river, and when the appointed hour drew close, Marcus set out, glad of the chance to escape the worries that haunted him at the fort. He was afraid they would have to try and bring in extra grain supplies for the winter. They’d have a better idea of where things stood after the taxes had been levied, but given the harvest, he was almost sure they would not collect enough.

As he approached the river, he heard raised voices and checked his pace, moving forward more cautiously. The trees thinned, and he made out Esca and Cradoc, standing next to Cradoc’s chariot. Cradoc’s back was to Marcus, but he could make out his angry gestures. Esca was standing with his arms folded across his chest, mouth pressed in an unhappy line. Occasionally he gave a short, biting reply. They were speaking too quickly and were too far away for Marcus to be able to understand their words. 

Just then Esca caught sight of him and said something to Cradoc, who turned, struggling to appear nonchalant. 

“Perhaps you should give the Commander a taste of what he must match,” Esca suggested. 

So Cradoc set the horses to their paces and performed a neat trick, running out along the yoke-pole when he drew them to a halt, inches from Marcus. 

And then Marcus climbed aboard and felt the eagerness of the horses, and the clasp of the reins in his palms, and his heart lifted like a bird, singing its way to freedom out of an earthbound cage. 

“The Commander begins to be a charioteer,” Cradoc said solemnly when it was done, and there was a look of grudging admiration in Esca’s eyes.

But that evening, returning to the Praetorian gate, he thought on the sharp words between Esca and Cradoc. And he also minded the spear that Cradoc had held back, even as he gave Marcus his choice of the others in return for winning their wager. The spear had born the soft, grayish-blue feathers of a heron, only lately affixed to its haft. 

*

A new grain measure and Melitus making painstakingly precise notations ensured that the levies were collected without difficulties, although Marcus did not miss the resentful faces and bitter looks from the people as their grain was carted away. 

It pained him that he could no nothing to ease their lot. And yet, he did not want his men to starve, either. They would all have to tighten their belts before the winter ended.

He stayed late at the basilica to see the last cartload on its way, and when he walked back to the fort the road was deserted, everyone else gone to their supper and beds. But then he heard the sound of Esca’s harp and paused, listening. It was a quick, flashing sort of tune that sent Esca’s fingers tumbling over the strings. The music put Marcus in mind of his ride on the chariot, with the wind humming past his ears and the horses’ hooves galloping so lightly over the ground.

“That is a pretty song,” he said, and Esca started. Marcus thought he might have flushed a little, though the light was too dim to be certain. “What is it called?”

“Nothing,” Esca replied quickly. “Only a little nonsense that my fingers plucked out.”

Marcus didn’t press him—he did not want Esca angry at him again. Instead, he stretched out on the ground next to Esca with a sigh. “Perhaps I will try my luck at hunting tomorrow. You are welcome, should you care to join me.”

Esca did not reply, and Marcus twisted his head to look up at him. 

“I—” Esca paused. “I do not think I shall go. Not tomorrow,” he finished softly. 

“Very well.” Marcus stretched and pointed. “Look—Fortis begins to creep over the horizon, his arrow nocked. The cold days will be upon us soon.”

They watched as the sky darkened and more stars appeared. And then Esca let his hand fall to his harp once more.

_My war-spear was shivered,_  
 _My shield struck down,_  
 _In death I sought glory,_  
 _In fighting, renown._

_Ah! Life it tastes sweeter when swords must be drawn._

_I fought for our honor,_  
 _For lord and for life,_  
 _For peace held not freedom,_  
 _Which must come through strife._

_Ah! Life it tastes sweeter when swords must be drawn._

_Yet the foe’s strength prevailed,_  
 _My brothers, they felled._  
 _Our blood stained the earth stones,_  
 _Still—our spirits unquelled._

_Ah! Life it tastes sweeter when swords must be drawn._

_And Sucellos took them,_  
 _My friends and my kin,_  
 _Their mortal bonds lifted,_  
 _Their honor undimmed._

_Ah! Life it tastes sweeter when swords must be drawn._

_But from me His face turned,_  
 _My vows were not kept,_  
 _I had failed in my trust,_  
 _And o’er me no one wept._

_Ah! Life it tastes sweeter when swords must be drawn._

_And so I go wand’ring,_  
 _My way, I know not._  
 _No more a warrior,_  
 _My honor—all lost._

_Ah! But life tasted sweeter when swords could be drawn._

Esca sang softly, but Marcus could hear the pain in his words. He knew instinctively that Esca had never sung this song out loud before, though it must have festered in his heart. So, he knew now what had happened. Little wonder that Esca hated all things Roman. Well, perhaps not all things. For had Esca not chosen to sing this to him, and him alone?

“Esca,” he began, but Esca put his hand on his shoulder, and he fell silent.

“Please, Marcus.” Esca’s voice was rough and barely above a whisper. “I—you must—”  
His voice broke, and he gripped Marcus’s shoulder a little harder. 

Marcus covered Esca’s hand with his own. “What is it?” The thought struck him that this was the first time that Esca had called him by his name.

Esca’s fingers trembled as they sought out Marcus’s for a brief instant. And then he pulled away, standing up. “A good night to you, Marcus.”

His footsteps sounded light and quick, and Marcus could only see his sturdy figure for a few moments before he blended into the night, vanishing down the road.

*

Esca was nowhere to be found the next day, nor the following day. And though Marcus often climbed to the wall to look down the road and listened for the sound of a harp when he walked through the forum, Esca did not return. 

He knew—knew with a bone-deep certainty—that this was Esca’s way of warning him. Esca had not been able to bring himself to say the words out loud that would have betrayed his fellow Britons, and so he had left. 

Marcus tried not to miss him. He occupied himself with training the men, making sure that patrols were sent out, and that the guards on the walls stayed alert, now that he knew for sure that they were in danger. 

Of course, knowing mattered little, in the end. 

*

The cart stood outside the hospital, waiting to carry Marcus to Calleva, to the uncle who had answered his letter with condolences and entreaties for Marcus to make the trip as soon as he could manage it. Only a few matters of business remained, and then Marcus would be gone, the fort and his Cohort and all that he had known dwindling into the dust cloud behind him.

Drusillus had brought him some reports that required his signature, and when that was done, he sat next to Marcus again.

“You must make sure that the new cavalry commander looks after the stables properly,” Marcus told him. “Lutorius—” He faltered a moment before continuing, “Lutorius would not have wanted them to go to ruin.”

“I shall see to it, sir.” Drusillus put his hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “And you must promise to follow the surgeon’s orders so that your leg mends and you are well again.”

_I do not think I shall ever be well again,_ Marcus thought but did not say. 

The men watched silently as he left, and Marcus kept his eyes straight ahead, not sure that he could stand their pitying stares. Pain flared in his leg, turning his stomach, and it was soon matched by the ache in his heart at the sight of the burned huts and salted fields. He thought of Cradoc, now dead at Marcus’s hands. If it had been Esca in that chariot—

Marcus did not know if he could have thrown the spear, had it been Esca. 

Angrily, he pushed such thoughts away. What did it matter? Esca was gone, and Marcus doubted that he would ever see him again. 

*

It seemed to Marcus that it had been raining for weeks on end with nary a gleam of sunshine to lighten the dreariness. Was there ever any other kind of weather in this place? Saturnalia was drawing near, and his uncle spoke of going to the celebrations, but Marcus could not muster the will to care, one way or the other. His leg ached, and he felt useless and out-of-place. He still sometimes woke in the morning, thinking of all that must be done at the fort that day. Then memory rushed back, and with it all the bitterness of his disappointed hopes. 

He was sitting in his room one afternoon, leg stretched out and covered with blankets, staring unseeingly at one of his uncle’s books when he heard a commotion at the door.

“Marcus!” his uncle called and a moment later he appeared in the corridor. “Marcus, there is someone to see you. He claims he knew you at Isca.”

Frowning, Marcus sat up a little straighter, expecting Drusillus or perhaps (Mithras forbid it!) Melitus, in town on business. But instead—

“Esca!”

He looked much the same—still the old checkered cloak, his harp carefully wrapped at his side. His gray eyes were warm as he looked on Marcus, and a small smile lit his face.

Uncle Aquila excused himself, and Esca drew up a chair, sitting next to him. “You are…well?” Esca asked, eyes straying to Marcus’s leg.

Marcus opened his mouth to say that he was fine, but then paused. Had not Esca shown Marcus the deepest pain in his own heart? 

“Not so very well, no.”

“But you are alive,” Esca said, and then he repeated it. “ _You are alive_.” 

“Yes, I am alive and will live, though I will never march or—or even ride again.”

“I thought I had left you to be killed.” Esca drew in a shuddering breath. “But I could not stay—I _could not_. They wanted me to fight against you, and—and part of me agreed with what they did. I hoped that when you saw I had gone that you would realize, but I—”

“I knew,” Marcus said, and he thought again of Cradoc and the look of regret in his face even as he charged at Marcus on the field. “You could have fought against me and reclaimed the honor that you think lost,” he continued. “But you did not. Do you think I do not know what you have done for me? How grateful I am? Esca—” he had to clear his throat before he could continue. “If I had been forced to face you in battle, I—”

He fell silent, and they sat there quietly. Marcus slowly became aware of the sounds of the villa beyond—Sassticca calling shrilly for Marcipor, Procyon stirring himself to bark at a passing cart, a flutter of wings as a chicken hastened into the yard. 

“We are both of us failed warriors now,” he said. “The chance to gain—or regain—our honor gone forever.” 

“You truly think that?” Esca queried. He shook off his gloom and smiled again, pulling out his harp. “That is not how I heard the tale of it.” And then he began to play and sing. It was a song about Marcus stopping the charge of the chariots, sacrificing himself to save his men, and the honor he had won. Marcus blushed as he listened.

“I thought you swore never to sing the praises of the Romans,” he managed when Esca had finished and was looking at him, grinning at Marcus’s embarrassment.

“I will never sing the praises of the Romans,” Esca replied. “But this was a song about _a_ Roman.” 

“Well, then,” Marcus said. And he held out his hand, and Esca took it. 

 

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

>  _Vicus_ was the name for the town that usually grew up around Roman forts.
> 
> A _dupondius_ was a brass coin, worth two copper or bronze asses. Two brass _dupondii_ equaled one brass _sesterius_. Four brass _sestertii_ equaled one silver _denarius_. 
> 
> Q. Lollius Urbicus was the governor of Britain from 138 until around 142. I’m taking 120 as the year when Marcus’s father was killed, and figuring that Marcus joined the Legions roughly ten years later when he was 18, in 130. Although Sutcliff has Marcus becoming a Centurion within a year, I don’t see how that would be possible for a non-Equestrian. So I’m changing canon a little to have Marcus around 26 or 27 years old—long enough for him to have served with the Eagles for a while and to have risen through the ranks, although, as in the book, wherever he served before coming to Britain was not a place where he saw any fighting. 
> 
> The _Matres_ were three mother-goddesses responsible for fertility. During the Roman period, a Celtic cult of the Matres appeared in the Lower Rhine, northern Italy, and parts of Britain, which may have been “appropriated” by the Roman army as it suited their purposes. 
> 
> The _contubernium_ was the smallest unit of a Cohort, consisting of eight men. 
> 
> A _dolabra_ was the Roman army’s all-purpose tool. It could be used for entrenchments, to chop down trees, or as a weapon if necessary. 
> 
> The Roman cavalry adopted the _draco_ standard from the Sarmatians. Possibly not this early, but hey, artistic license! I’m also not sure if a Dacian cavalry troop assigned to an Auxiliary Cohort would possess this much bling, but the Romans did apparently go all out with these cavalry games and often used them to overawe the local populace. 
> 
> The incident with the grain measure is taken from an archaeological find at the Carvoran fort near Hadrian’s Wall. Archaeologists found a corn-measure that held more than the amount stated on the side of the vessel. 
> 
> A _modius_ was roughly equal to a peck. Each soldier required four _modii_ as his monthly ration of wheat, so I’ve used that as the amount that the grain measure held (or was supposed to hold!). A _uniciae_ roughly equals an inch. All of this could very well be wrong. Math is not my strong suit.
> 
> Sucellos, the god mentioned in Esca’s song, was a pagan deity in southern Britain, thought to be connected to the Underworld. 
> 
> Sources used include: Philip Matyszak, _Legionary: The Roman Soldier’s Unofficial Manual_ ; David Rudling, ed., _Ritual Landscapes of Roman South-East Britain_ ; Michael Simkins, _The Roman Army from Hadrian to Constantine_ ; Guy de la Bédoyère, _Roman Britain: A New History_ ; and Pat Southern, _The Roman Army: A Social and Institutional History_
> 
> Also, I would like to take this moment to apologize to Centurion Galba for making him a villain given that in the book he was the one who went back to help Marcus during the battle. But his little slip-up with taking bribes from the men was just too tempting, and I ran with it. ;) 
> 
> And remember to go [here](http://the-little-owl.livejournal.com/159478.html) and leave feedback for the artist!!


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